Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
HARRISON
My phone buzzes in my hand while I’m standing in the locker room, helmet tucked under my arm, the familiar hum of the arena vibrating through the concrete beneath my unlaced skates.
It’s Phil Rossie, my agent.
He should know better than to call this close to game time, but I suppose he thinks he’s doing me a favor so I swipe to answer, lowering my voice as the guys file past me toward the door.
“Talk fast,” I murmur. “Puck drops in fifteen.”
“Then I’ll be quick,” my agent says. “You’re serious?”
I glance around the locker room, my friends, my brothers hyping themselves up for our last home game of the regular season.
Playoffs will take us on the road starting next week.
Harper and Connor are in the audience tonight.
Visions of Connor pressed against the glass like it’s the most important job in the world hits like a slapshot in my mind.
I know he’ll be wearing my jersey—with my name stretched across his shoulders—and I feel it hit my chest like a punch.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’m serious.”
There’s a pause on Phil’s end. The kind that either means his jaw is on the floor and he’s pissed at me but doesn’t want to tear me down right before a big game, or the kind that means he’s recalculating everything he’s ever planned for me.
“You’re still skating at a high level, Meers. Top four defenseman numbers. The Stars would extend you. Other teams would too.”
“I know.”
“So why now? You in trouble? Because I can make it go away. Just say the word. You’re worth too damn much to—”
“No. Not in trouble,” I answer.
It’s because I missed ten years.
Because my kid looks at me like I know how to hang the fucking moon every time I lace up my skates.
Because I don’t want to be a ghost who flies in and out of his life between road trips and rehabs.
“I’m not saying now-now,” I say. “But soon. End of this season, maybe. I just want to know what my options are.”
He exhales slowly. “You realize once this gets out—”
“I know,” I cut in. “I’m just asking you to look at the numbers. Quietly.”
Another pause. Then, softer, “Okay. I’ll do that. But Harrison…you know that your life is your life, right? You can still have a family and play hockey. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
I think about Connor, who, I’m certain, is currently pressing his palms flat to the glass, eyes waiting to track every player like he’s memorizing everything about each one of them.
“I owe him,” I say. “And that’s enough for me.”
I hang up before he can argue and send a quick text to Harper before tossing my phone into my locker, lacing up my skates, and heading to the tunnel to be with my team.
Me
I love you. See you after the game.
The Anaheim Stars home crowd is deafening tonight.
The last home game of any regular season usually is, but this one feels bigger, like the air is thicker in here or something.
Maybe it’s playoff energy.
Or legacy energy. The kind that crawls under your pads and settles into your bones and you can just feel that this is going to be a fantastic game
The Chicago Red Tails line up across the ice during warmups, familiar faces staring back at us.
Any other time of day, we’re all friends.
Good friends. Some of ours are married to some of theirs so we consider ourselves family.
We always have. But when we’re on the ice they’re competitors and we have every confidence that we’ll tear these birds apart one feather at a time.
Colby Nelson circles the blue line with that calm, lethal authority of his.
Milo Landric snaps shots like he’s already in a rhythm.
Dex Foster’s chirping Bodhi from center ice like they’re not about to beat the hell out of each other, which I find amusing.
Dex isn’t getting any younger and I have no doubt Bodhi will skate rings around him.
At least he better, or Dex will pound him into the boards.
Hawken Malone and Quinton Shay are skating tight loops like they’re nothing but coiled aggression, and Zeke Miller taps his stick against his pads, eyes sharp.
It’s going to be a fight, that’s for sure, but there’s no way it won’t be a fun one.
And I’m in the mood for a good fun fight.
The puck drops and Chicago comes out hungry.
Milo Landric wins the face-off clean and the Red Tails surge into our zone like they’ve been waiting all night to break us. Colby Nelson hits a shot from the high slot less than ten seconds in and Barrett flashes leather, his glove snapping shut with a sharp pop that sends the crowd into a roar.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Barrett yells. “My grandma shoots harder than that.”
Milo points at him. “You better enjoy it now, goalie. I’m just warming up.”
“Yeah?” Barrett fires back. “Try warming up your aim.”
The Red Tails crash our zone again, Dex Foster barreling down the boards like a freight train. I do what I do best—and what I know will piss off Dex—and step into his lane, planting him into the glass.
Boom.
“Careful there big guy,” I say, circling him. “You’ll dent the boards with that ego.”
He snarls but I see the humor in his eyes. “You always this mouthy, Meers?”
“Only with the guys who skate like toddlers.”
The puck shoots loose and Bodhi scoops it up, pushing play the other way, and we transition fast. Oliver streaks down the right wing, August cutting middle, and I trail the play, timing it just right.
“Hit him!” someone yells from the Chicago bench.
But it’s too late.
Oliver drops it back to me at the blue line and I wind up, ripping a slap shot through traffic. It deflects off Hawken Malone’s shin pad and whistles wide.
“Nice block, Malone!” I call. “You okay? Need a Band-Aid?”
Griffin jams the rebound on net and Chicago scrambles like their skates are on fire.
“Panicking already?” Ledger chirps from the crease. “It’s gonna be a long night.”
First period is fast and brutal.
And the second is worse.
By the time the horn sounds to end the second period, sweat is dripping down my spine and my legs are burning, but we’re tied and the building is still buzzing.
I skate off, chest heaving, and glance into the stands.
Harper’s leaning forward, elbows on her knees, eyes locked on the ice like she’s willing us to win. Connor’s bouncing beside her, talking a mile a minute, probably narrating the game like he’s already a broadcaster.
My chest tightens with a feeling I can’t skate away from.
Those people sitting in those two seats are mine.
They’re here for me.
My family.
And God help me, I’d do anything for either of them.
I duck into the tunnel and head to the locker room where I reach for my phone out of habit. But before I even have a chance to glance at it, I feel the air being sucked out of the room with the shocked comments coming from most of the guys.
“Whoa what the fuck is this?”
“Is this real?”
“Meers, what’s going on?”
“Are you fucking serious, Meers?”
“When were you going to tell us?”
I turn from my locker to see six guys gaping at me from their positions around the room, their phones in their hands. I quickly glance down at my own lighting up and suddenly I can’t breathe as my stomach drops.
Trending on Sports News Network:
“Sources say Anaheim Stars defenseman Harrison Meers may be considering retirement at the end of the season.”
Shit.
My name is everywhere.
Clips. Old interviews. Speculation threads. Armchair GMs arguing about timelines and contracts and legacy like I’m not still sweating in full gear.
“What the hell?” Griffin mutters, scrolling beside me.
Ledger whistles low. “Damn, Meers. If you wanted to steal the spotlight tonight…”
“I didn’t say anything,” I snap, shoving my phone back into my stall.
Barrett peers over. “You didn’t have to. Someone always talks.”
August meets my eyes across the room. He doesn’t joke, nor does he smile. “You okay?” he asks.
I nod once. “Yeah.”
I’m not sure if that’s true.
Coach bangs his fist against the whiteboard, drawing our attention. “Whatever’s happening outside this room stays outside, gentlemen. We’ve got twenty minutes to figure out how to win this game. Focus up.”
I nod, but my mind’s racing faster than my heart rate. Who leaked this? Phil wouldn’t have…he knows better. Maybe someone overheard us talking? Maybe someone in management got wind of it and decided to control the narrative?
It doesn’t matter now. It’s out there.
I catch Griffin staring at me. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, but his expression says everything. “Just trying to figure out if you were planning to tell us before social media.”
I sigh, running a hand over my face. “It wasn’t supposed to get out. Not yet.”
“But it’s true?” August asks quietly.
The room goes silent. Even Coach pauses his diagramming to look at me.
“I’m thinking about it,” I admit. “Nothing’s decided yet.”
Bodhi slumps against his stall. “Fuck, man.”
“Can we talk about this after the game?” I ask, my voice sharper than intended. “I’ve got a kid in those stands who is just finding out I’m considering retirement.”
The room settles, but I feel eyes on me from every direction. I try to push it all away—the leak, the speculation, the questions—and focus on the board as Coach walks us through third-period adjustments.
But my mind keeps sliding back to Harper and Connor. Has someone shown them the news? Does Harper think I’m doing this without confirming things with her? Is she fielding questions from other wives and girlfriends while trying to watch the game? And what about Connor? Does he know?
Fuck.
He’ll think I’m lying to him all over again because I haven’t been forthcoming with my thoughts.
This isn’t how I wanted this to go. Not with a leak. Not with speculation. Not with everyone finding out before I’d made any real decisions.
I just wanted to know my options.
I exhale slowly, trying to center myself. The leak is out there. There’s nothing I can do about it now except play the best twenty minutes of hockey I can and then deal with the fallout afterwards.